What Makes a Man
by PhantomPenguin
Summary: A chance encounter with Jim's father during an afternoon out brings out long-ignored emotions in both of Barbara's men, and Jim and Walter realize they have more in common than a connection to Trollkind and an affinity for flatware fencing.


James Lake, Jr. woke up around eight that Saturday morning to the clanking of pans and light laughter from the kitchen that meant Strickler was cooking breakfast for his mother...again. Closing his eyes did no good—his door was cracked and sound crept in unheeding, accompanied by bright rays of sunlight that pushed their way through his curtains to penetrate his closed eyelids.

Giving up, he propped himself up against his headboard, listening to the light patter of voices and trying to determine how he was supposed to feel at yet another obvious usurping of duties. His brow furrowed as he frowned, and then rebellion abandoned him in favor of resignation to the inevitable. It had been happening more and more over the last few months, and quite frankly by this point he was so used to Strickler being in the house that this turn of events barely phased him.

This morning, Jim simply rolled his eyes and flopped back down into his bed. It had been ages since he'd been able to sleep in—either being summoned by an obligation to feed Barbara or called to duty as the Trollhunter. Another bit of sleep sounded quite nice, especially if it gave him the opportunity to avoid his mother and his teacher (who doubled as his mother's boyfriend and a half-troll enemy converted to the side of good and wasn't _that_ a headache and a half?) making eyes at each other.

So thinking, he rolled over, slammed a pillow over his head, and drifted back off to sleep.

When Jim next awoke, it was ten o'clock and he was feeling much more aware of the world at large. He rolled out of bed and stretched, running a hand through his hair and ruffling the shaggy locks, blinking blearily at his reflection in the mirror. "Good enough," he mumbled, pulling open his dresser drawer and fishing around for a shirt. He settled for an old tee that Barbara had given him years ago—the only thing of his father's she had kept, and that only because it was one _she_ had given _him,_ a sentimental token bearing the logo of the local hospital where Jim had been born and Barbara now worked.

James Lake Sr. hadn't had much to his name when Barbara had booted him out of the house—some clothing, some sports trinkets and memorabilia hoarded away from his high school days. No money, certainly, and nothing to represent his "good" name. He had walked out of their house penniless, having spent a few years prior squandering his and Barbara's savings on failed business endeavors and "business trips" to cities with casinos.

Jim had been five when his father walked out of his life, barely looking back at the son he left in his wake.

Barbara struggled for the better part of a year to pull them out of the mire in which James's failures left them, calling credit company after credit company to separate their accounts and dig herself out of the monumental pile of debt in which she had found herself. She sat in fear of foreclosure for nine months as she fought the bank month in and month out, arguing against the double mortgage her delightful ex had taken out on the house without her knowing, frenziedly hunting for a smaller house that would be within budget once she sold their former monstrosity.

Jim had watched it all unfold, too young to completely understand but old enough to be bitter. He had barely known his father even when the man was around, and other than a few evening cries of "Where's Dad?" had never brought up his father again after that horrendous afternoon.

Coming back to the present, he frowned and tugged on the shirt, turning to flip through a stack of pants in his closet for some jeans that didn't have torn knees or fraying hems.

He didn't _miss_ his father—how could one miss what one had never really had? The crux of the matter was that he missed having _a_ father, a _dad_ , someone to fill that unspoken missing _something_ that hung so heavily in the air at school events and soccer games and lazy Sunday afternoons when all the other kids from school were out and about with their families. There were some things a son just didn't want to share with his mother, things she didn't need to know or things that would cause her undue concern.

Barbara was Jim's world, and he would die before he let anything happen to her, would sacrifice his own comfort to ensure hers. He knew, especially as he grew older and more aware of the world, how much she had sacrificed for him. He knew just how much she had given up to provide him with a life that so closely mirrored that of his friends with _two_ parents, with two incomes and staggered free time and who always had at least _one_ parent around at all given times.

Jim had watched his mother work herself to and beyond the point of exhaustion, and somewhere along the way _he_ had started occasionally taking care of _her._

And now, he didn't know _how_ he felt—now there was Walter, now there was someone _else_ who could help, someone else who cared.

"Jim?" Barbara's voice carried up the stairs and through his door. "You up?"

"Yes," he called back down, shaking his head and coming back to the present. He jogged down the stairs, grabbing the railing and jumping the last six to land with perfect balance on the floor.

"James Lake, Jr.!" Barbara exclaimed, waving a dusting rag in his face. "Don't you _dare_ do that again. Do you know how many broken bones I get every day from reckless young men and staircases?" She flicked the towel at his nose and then returned to attacking the entertainment center, giving the wood a particularly vicious tug.

When her attention was diverted Walter gave Jim an approving nod from his station at the ironing board. "Excellent form, Young Atlas," he praised with a smirk, a puff of steam hissing out of the hot iron as he pressed a pair of Jim's khakis.

Jim couldn't decide if the absurd domesticity of the situation was better suited to a laugh or an eye roll. He shook his head. "My life is so normal," he muttered sarcastically, slipping into the kitchen. "I fight trolls for a living, I _live_ with a Changeling, and my mother yells at me for jumping down the _stairs."_ Poking his head in the refrigerator, he made a face and withdrew, reaching instead for one of the bananas hanging over the fruit bowl.

"Don't eat too much, honey," Barbara chided, "We're going to go out for lunch in a few hours."

Grimacing, he dropped his peel neatly in the trash can. "But I was going to hang out with Claire today," he protested.

Barbara rolled her eyes, poking him in the side. "You can still _hang out with Claire,"_ she returned, "Just after a bit of together-time with the three of us. You've barely been home all week, _I've_ barely been home all week—is it so wrong of me to want just a bit of time with _both_ of my men?"

Jim could sigh and grump all he wanted, but he couldn't disagree that their family time had been few and far between lately. That was how, a few hours later, Jim and Walter found themselves propelled into opposite seats at a small square table outside one of Barbara's favorite cafes. "Wait here, you two, and _leave the cutlery alone."_ She instructed, voice stern but eyes dancing with laughter. "I'll grab the food and be right back." And then she was gone, striding into the little restaurant with purpose without another glance behind her.

" _Leave the cutlery alone_ ," Jim mimicked in a high-pitched voice, rolling his eyes. "How old does she think we are?"

Walter snickered. "You seem to be forgetting what happened at our _first_ meeting, Young Atlas," he chided, running one long finger along the edge of the knife that poked through the top of the bundled silverware.

"But _she_ shouldn't know that," Jim protested, brow furrowed. "She was oblivious that night!"

Walter snorted outright at that, the laughter easing the typical harshness of his expression. "And the following meals?"

Jim gave a slight grin in return. "Well, there _was_ that one breakfast, and dinner that one night where all we had was soup spoons, and…" His face took on a contemplative expression. "Yeah, okay. We might be getting a bit predictable."

Steepling his fingers, Walter leaned forward and gazed over at Jim from beneath heavy brows. "Is predictable so bad?" he questioned, the levity of the situation ebbing a bit in favor of a more serious tone. They could joke and josh all day long, but at the heart of it all was two men trying to find the balance between them and the woman they both adored.

Jim could read the meaning behind the words, and awkwardly scratched the base of his head, ruffling his shaggy hair and staring somewhere at the space to the right of Strickler's shoulder. "I—" he bit off his words, looking frustrated. He buried his head in his hands, giving his mind time to form the proper sentences. This was so much more than a conversation about fencing with forks. His lips twitched, and he looked up, a small smile forming at the corner of his mouth. "No," he replied, meeting Strickler's eyes, "It's not bad at all."

He smiled outright, the grin shedding the heavy responsibility that he wore as often as his armour. In that moment, at least, he appeared the boy of fifteen that he truly was, rather than the man he had been forced to become.

Walter smiled in return, a small upward twitch of his lips that spoke words that his voice never would—words of affection and respect, compassion and fondness and an almost paternal pride.

"Jim? Is that you?"

The unfamiliar voice rang out across the crowded little plaza, severing the moment like a hot knife through butter.

Jim's brows furrowed, and he jerked his eyes away from Walter's, shifting in his seat to look up at the strange man walking over to their table. The sun was at his back, and Jim had to squint to make out his face, brows furrowed and a hand at his brow to block the most intrusive of the sun's rays. Across from him, Strickler suddenly sat up ramrod straight, his brows drawn tight and a frown at his lips, his eyes rapidly scanning the door to the restaurant where Barbara was collecting their lunch.

"I'm sorry, but—" Jim shot the stranger a bemused glance, casting a look of side-eyed confusion at Strickler's sudden irritation.

"It's me, bud, your dad! James? How've you been?"

Jim froze, his spine locking into place, a dull, numb buzz ringing in his ears as his reality bottomed out and he receded from the present. The man— _his father_ —continued to speak, but the words washed meaningless across Jim, his brain tuning out active thought. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth, a strange tingling in his fingers, and he felt his hand clench into a fist, the muscles tightening in his shoulders and arms.

Across from him, Walter's hand flexed on the table, gripping the intricately knotted napkin in a death-like grip, his arm convulsing as he restrained himself—though whether it was from reaching for Jim or James, he could not say.

Wetting suddenly dry lips, Jim forced himself to speak. "D—Dad?" His voice rose in pitch as he stared up at the virtual stranger standing before him. His hair was as dark as Jim remembered, his face broad and smiling, eyes framed by laugh lines that hadn't been there in the few photos that remained in the house. The man Jim remembered had been sullen and withdrawn, unhappy and somber with his words and actions, barely home and never pleased.

"That's right," James agreed jovially, seemingly oblivious to the emotional war playing out across his son's face, to say nothing of the thundercloud that was spreading across Strickler's. "I was in the neighborhood and happened to look up, and, well, there you were!" He beamed, waiting in silence as he held out an expectant hand to his son.

"You—" Jim's face twisted into an expression of such _dislike_ that Walter's eyes widened in surprise. _He_ had been on the receiving end of such a look, and his traitorous heart gave a subtle twist at the implication that now there was another who had risen to such a place of intense dislike and betrayal. Someone who, by genetic rights, could lay claim to the resilient young man before him.

"You left," the boy hissed, standing up, staring down at where his tightly-clenched fists rested on the tabletop. "You lied, you cheated, you stole money, and when she told you to go, _you just left."_ His eyes rose to meet his father's, his mother's blue boring into dirty hazel, and some part of Jim realized with a shock that he was almost at eye level with the man.

Walter's heart gave another turn at the emotion in the boy's eyes, the resentment and stagnant pain in them moving him in a way he had not anticipated—he recognized those emotions, knew them well and intimately from his own life. Fear, burning dislike, the intense pain and regret and self-doubt that comes from being abandoned, of being cast aside like yesterday's news and ignored.

James raised his hands defensively, the grin on his lips never fading. "Jim, Jim, Jim," he began, the condescension in his voice so obvious that a child couldn't miss it, "I _had_ to. It was best for you, best for your mother. She wanted me gone, so I left. You had the house, you had the car—I left you with much more than most would have."

" _You could have fought for it,"_ Jim yelled, self-control cracking. He banged a single fist on the table, the silverware clinking at the force of the blow. "You left us with _nothing_ except your debt, your bad reputation, and a hell of a time getting everything back together. Yeah, a lot of parents get divorced, but most of them at least still want to have something to do with their kid! You were just GONE." His voice cracked. "And now you walk back over here, like nothing has changed, like it hasn't been ten years and you still have a _place_ here, like Mom hasn't moved on—"

Inadvertently, he cast his eyes over to where Walter sat, studiously contemplating his glass of water and counting backwards in Arabic to avoid joining the confrontation. Nothing he could contribute would assist in dampening the already-roiling flames—his blood boiled at the arrogance and utter disregard the father showed toward his son, toward the boy for whom he was supposed to care, whom he was meant to _protect_. Jim was basically an adult and could handle himself, Jim would not welcome Walter's interference, Jim was his own man and had proved himself against trolls three times the size of the pitiful human standing before them. Walter scowled and counted faster, his nails digging red crescents into his palms.

James followed his son's gaze, and coughed out a mocking laugh. " _Him?_ Your mother is with him now? What is he, some kind of professor? Nice sweater, bud, really adds to the intimidating ensemble."

All of Walter's attempts to remain calm simply slid out of his head and he raised a single disdainful eyebrow, his patience fraying. "And I suppose that means I am supposed to be considered harmless, then?" he queried, giving the other man a thin-lipped smile and rising from his seat with a grace that masked the territorial beast that growled from within.

Even James could not be so thick as to miss the tension in the air, strung tight between the three of them, a cord drawn taught and on the very edge of snapping. For the first time, his smile wavered, twitching as his stance shifted into a more defensive pose. "I didn't mean anything negative," he protested, thrusting one hand forward to reach for Walter's. "James Lake," he introduced himself, gripping Walter's hand tightly and pumping it up and down. "Pleasure to meet you."

Simmering anger rapidly overtook surprise at this idiot's sheer audacity, and Walter returned the other man's grip so tightly that James winced, withdrawing. "Some grip you've got there," he muttered, shoving his hands in his pockets. "So, are you actually dating Barbara? Or are you just some teacher that she picked up from school to keep an eye on Jim? You look the type—she never could stay home enough to be around for a real man, was always at the hospital or sleeping or doing something with Jim. I had no choice but to do what I did—no _real_ woman would treat her husband like that—"

His voice cut off with a squawk as both of Walter's hands wrapped around his neck. "You will _not_ talk about Barbara in such a manner," Walter hissed, tightening his grip. His eyes _blazed_ , twin points of green flame framed in a stern face. "She is far more than anything you are, more than you will ever _be._ " His thumbs pressed into the other man's Adam's apple, choking off the hacking reply trying to force its way out of his mouth. "She cut you out to _protect her son_ , which is far more than you ever did for him. Do you think it was easy for her?" His face was a thundercloud. "She is the most hardworking, caring, _kind_ person I have ever had the fortune of meeting, and has _excelled_ at raising a young man who embodies every one of those traits."

Jim had also moved to go after his father when he had insulted Barbara, but now simply stood in place, one hand thrown out as if to grab for his father's arm, his mouth agape and eyes wide at the pure venom in Walter's voice.

He and Strickler had always had an unorthodox relationship, even _before_ the whole Trollhunter-Changeling-mother-dating saga. He had been a mentor, someone in the "not Mom" category to whom Jim could turn for advice and guidance. Then, of course, that had shattered into a million sharp little pieces when Jim realized what Strickler _was_ , what he was capable of and what he had done. Even afterward, when Walter had returned and (mostly) redeemed himself, Jim hadn't known how to respond to his burgeoning relationship with Barbara.

He knew the Changeling loved her, he had seen that _before_ the half-troll came back, but—Barbara was still his mother, and anyone who dared bring harm upon her would be facing a wrathful Trollhunter and a bountiful army of his friends.

As weeks had bled into months, though, Jim had begun to understand. He saw it in the way Walter went to such pains to cook for Barbara, to make meal after meal to ensure that she was eating regularly in between shifts. He saw it in the way the man took on the majority of the household chores, washing laundry and vacuuming and doing dishes with nary a thought for the time it consumed. He saw it in the tender touches when they thought he wasn't looking, the way Strickland would curl his arm about Barbara's waist and simply lean into her, tucking her chin beneath his head and closing his eyes and all but humming with contentment. And, he saw it in the way Strickler dealt with _him—_ he addressed Jim as an equal, yes, but more than that he treated him like a _son._

Young though he was, Jim was experienced enough in the ways of people and the world to see through the façade, to see that he was not just another student, another young mind to bend and form—to Walter he was something _more_ , a kindred spirit who shared far more with Walter than he ever would with his biological father.

And, right now, watching the man who had stepped in to fill that paternal void stand up for him (stand up for _Barbara_ ) to the man who had abandoned them, well…Jim knew where his loyalties lay.

"Get out," he commanded, stepping away from the table to level a dark glare at his father.

A muffled, choking cough tore its way from James throat as he fought to breath, his hands clawing futilely at his neck.

Jim turned his head slightly to nod at Strickler. "I think he's seen the error of his ways," he noted, unable to keep a small smile from twitching at his lips.

Walter withdrew, simply relaxing his grip and raising his hands, James dropping like a lead balloon to the cobbled ground. "I should hope so," he drawled, smoothing down his jacket and wiping imaginary dirt from his palms. His eyes narrowed slightly, and Jim caught a telling flash of amber and scarlet. "I would hate to think that we would have to…reinforce…his belief in Barbara's good name," he added softly, staring down at the gasping man at his feet in the manner one examines a particularly unsavory insect.

Two steps took Jim to his father's head. He knelt, reached out a hand and grasped his father's. With a quick jerk he yanked the older man to his feet, taking a step back rather than offer any additional support. "I believe it's time for you to leave," he said, blue eyes shadowed with a mix of dislike and disappointment. "And do see that you never come back," he added. "You may have left me once upon a time, but you know what, dad?" Jim stepped forward so that his nose was but an inch from his father's. "I've realized that _I don't need you._ I never have. Mom has always been there for me, always offered everything I could need and more." A small smile graced his lips as he canted his head toward Walter. "And now, what little extra I _was_ missing….well, I have that too."

When James made no move to leave, simply standing and staring dumbly at his son, Walter reached out and gripped his wrist, bending the appendage back in an uncomfortable twist. "Would you like some help finding your way out?"

"Fucking insane," the other man muttered, jerking his arm back and staggering to the street. "You're both fucking insane. Always knew you were a crazy little momma's boy, Jim." He jerked in surprise as a knife buried itself in the telephone pole in front of him, embedded so deep I an the wood that it barely quavered from the force of the impact.

"That I am," Jim agreed cheerfully, tossing a fork in the air.

It was about that time James made good on his escape, slinking down the street with his head down, avoiding the curious gazes of passerby who had caught the tail end of the altercation.

Jim leaned one arm on the table, running his free hand through his hair, trying to slow the adrenaline still pumping through his veins. Strong fingers gripped his wrist, their hold gentle despite their earlier fierceness, and he looked up into Strickler's concerned gaze, his face swimming slightly as Jim's head spun.

"Are you alright?" the older man asked, clearly wishing to offer more than a simple touch on the wrist but unsure of his place.

Jim bit his lip, looking out at the busy street, over at the bustling café, across the table to the concerned green eyes of his mentor and _friend_. He saw Barbara come out of the café with two bulging bags of food, a bright smile on her face and nary a care in the world that afternoon. Shifting slightly, he flipped his arm so that Walter's hand slid into his in a firm grip, the meeting of two equals in a gesture of respect. "You know what," he admitted, his teeth flashing in a tentative smile, "I think I am."


End file.
